


I Already Know (What You Wanna Do)

by kinetikatrue, Solarcat



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bollig/Shawzy is my Blackhawks hipster OTP, Chicago Blackhawks, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Shawzy is pretty when he's been in a fight, Tie Kink, bruise kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinetikatrue/pseuds/kinetikatrue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarcat/pseuds/Solarcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You still coming over?” He asks casually as Shawzy stands up to put on his coat, glancing away when Shawzy licks his lips again. They don’t actually have plans, but if he knows Shawzy... And he does. Brandon knows Shawzy better than anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Already Know (What You Wanna Do)

**Author's Note:**

> Epic thanks to Kinetikatrue, who beta'd this so thoroughly as to get co-writer credit (because it's about 50% longer than it started out a week ago, and most of the good stuff is her fault). <3! _-Solarcat_
> 
> Thanks to Solarcat for letting me be dictatorial about verbs that require direct objects and the importance of word choice to characterization. And just how much of a little shit Andrew Shaw is. I didn't intend to make quite as much of a mark on this fic as I ended up doing, but I had a great time coming along for the ride, so I can't say I regret it! _-Kinetikatrue_
> 
> Title from Enrique Iglesias' _Tonight (I'm Fucking You)_ , because shame is for other people.

When the team comes off the ice, they're loud and flushed with victory. Brandon takes his usual place behind Shawzy in the line headed for the room, but mostly keeps quiet — he's busy staring at the back of Shawzy's neck, the only skin showing between his helmet and the rest of his uniform, watching it go redder and redder the longer and harder he stares. If Brandon had his way, Shawzy'd be naked, so he could see the way the flush spreads over Shawzy's shoulders and partway down his chest. But Shawzy would hate that — he thinks the way he blushes is embarrassing, though he likes the way it makes Brandon want to lick him — and it's probably better if Brandon isn't tempted into doing that where the team and their fans can see.

So getting up close and personal with Shawzy's flushed skin can wait for later; _not at the UC_ , later.

Brandon stops at his own stall to take off his helmet and gloves and skates before he wanders past Stally's to Shawzy's to get a better look at the spoils of his fight with Smith; he hadn't got much a chance once Shawzy had made it back out to the bench. And, well, considering the way Shawzy looks now? It's probably just as well. Shawzy's split lip has stopped bleeding but it’s still puffy and red and probably hot to the touch, and he’s squinting a little through his blacked eye. The trainers have already determined that he’ll be fine — they wouldn't have let him back out on the bench, otherwise — but he’ll have the shiner for a while and his hands are going to ache once the adrenaline's worn off.

So the warm pulse of _want_ deep in Brandon's gut when Shawzy looks up at him through his eyelashes, pupils wide and dark, bruised lips parted and shiny? Is not a surprise at all. And, fuck, yeah, he rolls with it, wraps his hand around the back of Shawzy’s neck and squeezes hard, sucks in a breath at the way Shawzy arches into the pressure. Brandon can't tell him to do any of the things he really wants, not in the room like this, so he just says, “Go take a shower,” low and private, letting his fingers drag over Shawzy’s skin as he lets go.

Shawzy's throat works as he swallows, licks his lips, but he shoots back, "Like I need to be told," and gives Brandon a half-hearted and not-very-convincing shove back toward his own stall.

Brandon fights down a groan — fuck being in the room, for real — and goes, grateful that Stally's still off being a princess in the showers. He mostly keeps his eyes front after that, but he's watching out of the corner of his eye when Shawzy heads to the showers, himself, towel wrapped around his waist. It doesn't really disguise the fact that he’s half-hard beneath it, but that's just part of hockey, and the guys mostly don’t give each other too much shit for it. And anyway, the rest of them are too busy shoving and laughing in the wake of a good win to notice much of anything else right now.

Much as he'd like to, Brandon doesn't hit the showers without passing go or collecting $200. He methodically strips off the rest of his gear and gets his shower kit together, and carefully avoids looking for Shawzy when he chooses a shower, just takes the first free one. By the time he’s done, almost everybody else has left and Shawzy’s sitting on the bench in his suit and tie, putting his dress shoes on. His split lip and bruises look out of place, make Brandon want to mess the rest of him up, give him bruises on top of bruises, trash the suit beyond all hope of repair — and that has Brandon's cock twitching, and him trying to press the heel of his hand against it as subtly as he can. Patience.

“You still coming over?” He asks casually as Shawzy stands up to put on his coat, glancing away when Shawzy licks his lips again. They don’t actually have plans, but if he knows Shawzy... And he does. Brandon knows Shawzy better than anyone.

“You still owe me a shot per punch, right? Wouldn’t miss it,” Shawzy says, rolling with it, grinning as he tugs his beanie down over his damp hair. The grin pulls at the split in his lip, threatens to tear it open again.

Brandon wants to help it along. Instead, he asks, “You sure you can handle it?” It's teasing, only the slightest bit of heat behind the words to declare his intent — and he’s pretty sure he’s the only one who notices when Shawzy’s breath hitches.

“You know I can,” Shawzy snaps back, slightly fierce in a way that probably comes off as defensive to anyone who doesn’t know better, which would be most people who aren't Brandon.

Tazer's rolling his eyes from across the room, but Brandon's pretty sure that's over the alcohol and not because he knows what they’re up to. He doesn't mess with enforcer traditions any more than he messes with D traditions — Tazer gets that some things are sacred (even if they've been made up on the spot) — but Brandon knows that if the next morning weren't just an optional skate, he’d be getting his captain on about not showing up hungover and enjoying the fuck out of it. Brandon doesn't get it, but he's also under no illusions about his chances of ever being a captain. And anyway, Tazer's just Tazer.

Which means that he also wishes them a good night when they head out together.

They drive to Brandon's place separately, though, and when Brandon gets there Shawzy’s waiting for him, his car already parked in the second parking space that practically doubles Brandon’s rent. He’s lounging against the rear quarter panel like a well-dressed hooker or something, and Brandon gives in to his instincts and hip-checks him in the direction of the elevator. That earns him a retaliatory elbow to the ribs — and Shawzy sticking close to his heels all the way to his door, and while Brandon unlocks it and steps inside. When the door finally, finally clicks shut behind them, he turns and shoves Shawzy up against it, nips at the swollen part of Shawzy's lip, just avoiding the cut — this time. Shawzy moans and ruts against him in jerky little movements; he's already hard.

Brandon doesn't think, just reaches between them to cup Shawzy and stroke him through his suit pants, and Shawzy whines, “ _Fuck_ ,” bucking up against Brandon’s hand.

Just like that there’s too much clothing separating them — but if Brandon's being honest, he's at least as good at getting undressed as he is at hockey, so shrugging off his coat and suit jacket and tossing them aside and then stripping Shawzy out of his extra layers, well. Not a challenge. And then he's wrapping a hand in Shawzy’s tie, pulling just hard enough to put pressure on his throat, and Shawzy isn’t fighting it, isn't struggling at all. If anything, he relaxes, waiting to find out what Brandon plans to do — trusting that whatever it is will be what Shawzy wants, too — and Brandon has to swallow down most of the things that makes him feel because otherwise he’s going to fall apart before he’s taken care of Shawzy.

It helps to concentrate on each of the things he needs to do before he can do that: undoing Shawzy's belt buckle and popping the button, sliding down the zipper and shoving Shawzy's pants and boxers out of the way.

When Shawzy's cock springs free, bobbing against his stomach, he’s already leaking precome everywhere — and judging by the damp patch on the front of his boxers, has been for a while, maybe even since the UC. Brandon’s been careful not to look, though, even when Shawzy was standing right in front of him while Brandon pulled his shoes on; it was safer that way. But he looks now — he fucking stares at Shawzy, all red and thick in his hand, and says, "I got you,” rubs the pad of his thumb over the head of Shawzy’s cock to spread the slickness around and tells him, “You’ve been so fucking good, waiting like this. Gonna take care of you, babe.”

That gets Shawzy making noise, needy whines that come fucking fighting out of his mouth — and, hell, if Brandon hadn't already been desperate to kiss him, he would be now, just so he could swallow them down. And, yeah, he has to be careful not to leave too much beard burn on Shawzy’s face, but that doesn’t mean Brandon can’t coax his mouth open and lick his way inside, start pulling Shawzy down the hall by the tie. Shawzy hisses at the way it pulls on his lip, but Brandon doesn't let up on the kissing except to bite down around the split. And Shawzy doesn't exactly seem to mind, not even when he almost trips over his own pants because Brandon forgets and tries to pull him along more quickly than he can go with them shoved down to mid-thigh.

Just inside the bedroom, Shawzy stumbles into Brandon — and Brandon catches him but lets him fall to his knees, loosening his grip on Shawzy’s tie just enough to keep from actually choking him, because neither of them is really into that. Hell, they don't even do things this way all the time; sometimes Brandon wants Shawzy to push _him_ around, and other times they just make out on Brandon’s couch until they both pass out from post-game exhaustion. But they’ve done all of it enough that Brandon knows how he likes Shawzy best, what he needs to do to get Shawzy off.

They’ve done this often enough that Brandon has thought about asking Shawzy if he maybe wants a real leash, a real collar instead of a repurposed tie, if that would make it even better for him. Brandon has even looked at a few online, imagined a thick band of supple leather around Shawzy’s neck as Shawzy looks up at him — he just needs to know whether Shawzy wants it, too. Brandon's not going to ask until the season’s over, though.

For now, he spreads his hand along the side of Shawzy’s face, pressing hard against the hot skin of his freshly-bruised cheek. Shawzy gasps and Brandon thinks _bruises on top of bruises_ and thumbs over the split in Shawzy’s lip, the exaggerated swell of it, until Shawzy’s whimpering at the sensation.

“Suck me.” Brandon orders, loving the way Shawzy’s eyes get even darker as he goes for Brandon’s belt, though he undoes Brandon's pants and gets his cock out deliberately slowly, smirking the whole time like he’s teasing, like he thinks he’s in charge or something. Fuck. Brandon has to press down on Shawzy's split lip some more — and keep it up as Shawzy swallows him down.

“Fuck, _Andrew_ ,” he mutters, holding Shawzy’s head steady so he can shove even further into his hot mouth, make him choke a little before easing back, shifting just enough to kick his pants all the way off — Shawzy following like Brandon's dick's a magnet and he's made of mutinous iron. “You need it so bad, don’t you?” Brandon asks — and he's not expecting an answer, since Shawzy’s mouth is full of his cock, but Shawzy still manages to hum something around it that sends shockwaves up Brandon’s spine.

When Shawzy reaches for his own cock, still so hard and leaking, Brandon jerks sharply at Shawzy’s tie. “Don’t touch yourself,” he says, and Shawzy grumbles but braces his hand on Brandon’s thigh and doesn’t try again. Brandon still pulls back, pushing Shawzy just barely off his cock and making him look up and meet Brandon’s eyes. “You don’t come until I say you can. You understand?”

Sometimes Shawzy’s not into that, but Brandon knows he read Shawzy right today by the way he squirms and nods and then gasps out, “Fuck, _okay_ ,” when Brandon jerks on his tie again, demanding a response.

Brandon doesn't let up after, either, just guides his dick back into Shawzy’s mouth. And, yeah, he does keep his thrusts shallow, letting Shawzy lick and suck on the head and enjoying the feeling of his swollen lip stretched around it, but it's not _gentle_. Shawzy doesn't want gentle, and Brandon is going to give Shawzy exactly what he wants tonight — exactly what he _needs_ , what Brandon needs to give him. Shawzy moans and flushes even deeper when Brandon says, “I’m gonna fuck you,” and pulls back, then rubs the tip of his cock across Shawzy's split lip, leaving it shiny with precome and says, “Gonna split you open on my cock, fuck that tight little ass until you’re screaming for it.”

Every word's a filthy promise Shawzy's begging him to make good on. “Yeah,” he gasps, his chest heaving like he’s been double-shifting, and Brandon loosens his hold just enough that Shawzy can mouth sloppy and wet at the rest of his dick. “C’mon, Brandon, _fuck me_.”

He says it like it’s a dare — and Brandon will never get over the way Shawzy always pushes back, even when he's all bruised up and begging for Brandon’s cock, doesn't even want to — or how fucking pretty he is that way. Just looking at him is like taking another punch. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

He tells Shawzy, “I’ve got you, babe — gonna take such good care of you,” and helps him to his feet, kissing and biting at Shawzy's lips. And he isn't careful about it, not the way he is when he strips Shawzy, undoes the tiny buttons of his dress shirt and finally loosens his tie. After he's tossed them aside, he muscles Shawzy over to the bed, pushes him down so he can take off his shoes and socks, then his pants and boxers. He pulls Shawzy’s belt free of his pants, twisting it consideringly.

“Turn around,” he says, “On your knees,” and Shawzy’s eyes go wide and dark, maybe a little nervous, but he does it, kneels on top of the comforter and doesn’t even try to look over his shoulder, even though Brandon knows he wants to, wants to know what Brandon's planning. He shudders when Brandon slides the leather over the small of his back, snapping it over the curve of his ass.

“What d'ya think you're —” Shawzy starts, his voice rough.

Brandon tells him, "Getting you right where I want you."

And that gets him Shawzy mouthing off again, right on cue, "Yeah, and where the fuck's that?" It's his most consistent tell — the more nervous he is about something, the more he'll talk shit.

Which, well, what's there for Brandon to say to that but, "Here," and put the belt aside so he can reach out and pull Shawzy’s arms into position, get his wrists crossed at the small of his back and tell him to, “Keep them there.”

Shawzy says, "Whatever," and it's still plenty shirty, but he does do as he’s told.

That's good enough for Brandon. He carefully loops the belt around Shawzy's wrists, pulling it snug enough to hold but not too tight — restricting the blood-flow to Shawzy's hands when they're still sore from a fight would be a fucking dumb-ass move — and wrapping the end around and around to keep it secure. When he's done, he asks, “Okay?”

He can tell Shawzy’s considering, testing the way it pulls at his shoulders, shifting. He knows Shawzy will tell him if it hurts — or he isn't okay with it — because Shawzy? Is never fucking shy about giving Brandon his opinions on the shit they do in bed. Right now, he's holding still in that way that means Brandon's got it really fucking right. And that makes Brandon want to run a finger down Shawzy’s spine, shake him up a bit, break him out of it.

But Shawzy's saying, “Y-yeah,” voice rough at first until he clears his throat a little. “Yeah - fuck, _Brandon,_ ” and that gets Brandon mouthing at the nape of his neck, biting lightly at Shawzy’s skin just to hear him whine.

“Turn your head, babe,” Brandon orders — and kisses the corner of Shawzy’s mouth when he obeys. It takes some doing, getting Shawzy down on the bed like that without straining his shoulders too much, so his weight is on his chest and shoulders instead of his neck and head. Brandon has to tug the comforter out from under them to make sure Shawzy can still breathe with his face pressed down against the mattress - and he ends up practically covering Shawzy, his cock riding in the crease of Shawzy’s ass while he holds him up. Shawzy’s wide open, tied up and helpless and _Brandon’s_ , and Brandon has to squeeze himself once, tightly, to keep himself from coming too soon.

He has to finish giving Shawzy what he needs, first.

And that means getting Shawzy ready — spreading his legs a little further apart and leaning over him to retrieve the lube from under the pillow; Shawzy’s always tight and Brandon doesn’t like to brag, but he’s definitely not small, so he slicks up two fingers, spreads a little bit extra over Shawzy’s hole, then slides them right in. He knows better than to go too slowly — knows that Shawzy likes it best when he can really feel it. And, yeah, that gets Shawzy going, his hips twisting under Brandon’s hands like he wants to fuck himself back on Brandon’s fingers, but can't because he doesn’t have any leverage like this, can’t do anything but lie there and take what Brandon gives him.

When he scissors his fingers, curling them to find that spot, Shawzy whines and shifts, trying to find some friction and getting only air; panting out, “More — c’mon, _fuck me_ , asshole — I can take it. I wanna feel you — I know you wanna,” as he tries and fails to thrust back against Brandon’s hand.

Brandon takes a moment to think about it — he's still fucking Shawzy with his fingers, feeling how his body is begging for it, but they do have a few days off, and only an optional skate in the morning. And if Shawzy’s still that mouthy, Brandon isn’t doing his job right. “Okay, babe, okay,” he says as he leans down to kiss Shawzy’s mouth, half pressed into the mattress, kiss the corner of his eye where the bruise is still darkening. He sucks a little at the heated skin, pulling even more blood to the surface to make it even darker, even deeper. Make it _last_.

When Shawzy's reduced to making pained little noises at the sensation, shivering with it, Brandon finally slicks up his cock and rubs it against Shawzy’s hole. Shawzy whimpers, panting, as Brandon slowly begins to press in, so Brandon pauses, stroking Shawzy’s side and thigh until his breathing evens out a little. He wraps a hand around Shawzy’s hip, anchoring him, holding tight enough to leave a brand-new set of fingerprint bruises, and takes the belt in his other hand, pulling Shawzy’s arms back and forcing his back to arch. Then he shoves his cock the rest of the way in with one hard thrust, and Shawzy _howls_.

“Fuck, you feel so good, so fucking tight for me,” Brandon tells him, fucking into Shawzy hard and fast. He can hear Shawzy’s cock slapping against his belly with every thrust, imagine how painfully hard he must be, the mess he must be making of himself, how desperate he must be feeling — it makes Brandon want to take him even deeper, harder, mess him up even more.

“This is what you needed, huh?” Brandon finds himself saying, growling filthy into Shawzy’s ear. “You probably wanted me to fuck you right there on the bench in front of everyone, show them all how good you are, how pretty you look when you’re taking my cock.” And, yeah, that has Shawzy whining, dripping precome all over Brandon’s sheets, unable to move beyond what Brandon allows him. “I think you can come just from this,” Brandon tells him, “You’re gonna come just from my cock in you, just from me fucking you.” He tugs on the belt a little, pulling Shawzy almost upright, thighs splayed wide over Brandon’s lap, making it absolutely fucking clear that no, Brandon’s not going to free his hands, let him touch himself.

Shawzy arches against him, into the pull, and Brandon adjusts his rhythm a little, changes the angle, making Shawzy choke out a yell that turns into something like a sob. “Right there? Is that what you need, babe?” Brandon pauses, just long enough for Shawzy to beg raggedly, “Fuck, _Brandon!_ ” and then he thrusts in again, sets a punishing rhythm that has Shawzy crying out, wordlessly — and Brandon feeling the strain in his thighs, every thrust a reminder of just how hard, fast and long he'd already gone on the ice. He’s getting close, though — he can keep going long enough to keep his promise.

A few strokes later he tells Shawzy, “C’mon, babe. C’mon, come for me,” and that does it. Shawzy cries out — and his back arches, shoulders and bound wrists straining, muscles taut as he comes all over the sheets. Brandon fucks him through his orgasm, Shawzy clenching around him, and it’s too much, the heat and tightness and the way Shawzy shakes from the force of it. Brandon buries himself as deep inside Shawzy as he can get, his hips twitching as he comes.

It takes a minute for Brandon to catch his breath, but Shawzy is still pretty out of it, so when Brandon's finally up for moving, he just pulls out as gently as possible and settles Shawzy into a more comfortable position. He rubs the pad of his index finger lightly along the rim of Shawzy's hole, still slick and gaping open — but that has Shawzy whimpering and edging away, too sensitive to stand being touched, so Brandon moves on unwrapping the belt from around Shawzy’s wrists. Shawzy’s fucked out, his breathing rough but evening out and his skin shiny with sweat and darkening with new bruises; Brandon can call it good on dirtying Shawzy up. For now, anyway.

After the belt has joined the rest of their clothing on the floor, Brandon checks Shawzy's wrists for raw spots, then rolls him over — flat on his belly in the wet spot, and boy will he complain about that once he notices. It's fucking tempting — bitching or no — to just bury his face in Shawzy’s neck and get on with sleeping the sleep of the well-fucked, but tonight he’s taking care of Shawzy, and he’s not done yet. He's got to work out the little, and not-so-little, knots that have formed in Shawzy’s shoulders, loosen up the muscles in his arms. By the time he’s done, Shawzy’s coherent enough to roll onto his side, smiling his slightly-lopsided smile, so Brandon tugs the covers up from where they’d gotten all rucked up at the foot of the bed and slips under them, Shawzy settling against his chest.

Brandon has a mental count going, and he manages to reach fourteen (a new personal best) before Shawzy makes a grumpy noise and elbows him, grumbling, “M’not sleeping in the wet spot. ‘S your fault, you sleep in it.” He doesn’t actually make any effort to move, though, and Brandon can’t help the rush of _fondness_ he feels.

“I could just not let you come at all, if all you’re gonna do is bitch about it,” Brandon says, mocking, but he shifts them both backwards, anyway — and mentally fistpumps a little, because the fact that he purchased a king-sized bed? Means that a little bit of repositioning is all it takes to solve the problem.

There’s something in the way Shawzy shifts at that, the little change in his breathing, that tells Brandon he might be onto something there, but for the moment neither of them is up for another round. Brandon presses a kiss against the back of Shawzy’s shoulder once they’re settled again and wraps his arm around Shawzy’s waist, keeping him close. “You okay?” he asks, like he always does, and Shawzy turns his head and smiles again, his lip still puffy and red and perfect.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough and sleepy. Brandon can tell he’s tapped out after his orgasm, after the release of all his leftover gametime adrenaline, so he kisses the corner of Shawzy’s mouth and says, “Go to sleep, Mutt.”

“Stop ordering me around, asshole.” Shawzy yawns, snuggling down into the pillow he’s claimed as his own. “An’ you still owe me those shots,” he mumbles. Brandon chuckles, but Shawzy’s asleep before he can say anything else, and Brandon is fairly exhausted himself, so he just closes his eyes and follows suit.


End file.
